Who Chucked The Chucks?
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Ten and Martha need to go shopping: a day in the life of other TARDIS rooms, sleeping habits and home truths. Happens straight after episode 3.6 The Lazarus Experiment. Very much in the style of a TV episode.
1. Chapter 1

**ONE **

She pushed at the door, waiting for its slow swing to find its momentum. It gained speed and swung open, and she leapt forward and grabbed the thick edge, dragging on it, leaning back on her heels to stop it slamming into the wall behind.

She managed to stop it and let go of the door, wiping her hands together automatically. She looked round the room slowly, then stopped and blinked, surprised.

"Now I've seen everything," she said to herself, then grinned, letting her hands land on her hips as she stared. It wasn't rudeness, it was the first chance she'd had to get a really, really good look.

The Doctor was asleep. Or at least, he appeared to be. But just like most things he did when awake, the Doctor was doing it with enthusiasm.

He had taken off his brown jacket and hung it over the backrest of the old wooden chair. His right ankle was perched on the corner of the writing desk, his left crossed over it carelessly. She couldn't help but notice that his shoes were missing, and his red socks were twisted. The black seams ran vertically back over his feet, not across his toes. It made her smile for some strange reason.

His tie had been yanked open and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. She noticed it was the dark blue tie with the small navy blue squares on it. It always reminded her of Marks & Spencer's, or perhaps a sale at The Tie Rack in the run-up to Christmas.

He had moulded his long, lanky frame into the chair with the agility of a primate, his hands loosely holding a hardback book in his lap. His head had fallen back as if he were studying the ceiling, the base of his skull propped up slightly by the wooden backrest. His mouth was wide open, and yet he didn't appear to be making a noise.

What _was_ making a noise was a small radio-like device on the desk by his feet. It was square, bright orange, and the song issuing from it was starting to sound familiar.

'_Now if you can stand… I would like to __take you by the hand, yeah…'_

She looked around the large room, all dusty white with the same large, circular accoutrements on the walls. She wondered, not for the first time, what they actually did for the ship.

Apart from his large, antique writing desk and the matching chair, the room appeared to be filled with junk; large wooden tea-chests with '_Singapore_' printed on them, piles of rolled up papers, a stand-up trunk with '_do not touch_' written on it and even an antique-looking hat-stand.

'_And go for a walk, past the__ people as they go to work…_' the radio sang.

She walked past the sleeping Doctor and up to it, looking at the straw boater sat on it. She shook her head, confused, then turned. As she did she caught sight of something she never thought she'd see. And she stopped dead.

A bed. Like everything else, it was large. And square. Two firm-looking pillows held their own on a sea of deep blue silk-like material. One side had been very much used but left as-is, as if lifting the sheets to straighten them would have been too much trouble. The bed's right side was littered with small shiny pieces of electronica, a pair of rim-less glasses tossed casually somewhere in the collection of parts.

She blinked, her mind already taking in the rumpled, used look of it all, and the tiny blue square clock attached to the wall over the headboard. She put her hands to her mouth in guilt, stepping back a few as if she could erase her intrusion.

She turned and looked back at the Time Lord quickly, wondering if he'd seen her. However, he was very obviously still enjoying his wooden chair. The sound of the radio interrupted her thoughts admirably.

'_Let's get out of this place before they te__ll us that we've just died…'_

"Well I can't pretend I haven't just been nosing round his bedroom, can I?" she asked herself firmly. She shook her head and walked back over to him resolutely. She looked at him for a long minute. "Doctor?" she asked nervously. "Are you really asleep? Or just ignoring me?" she dared.

She leaned over him slowly, studying his face up close for the first time. She'd noticed his large brown doe-eyes the very moment they'd first met, and the eyebrows that spoke volumes. But now she noticed the '_pale-boy'_ freckles, the paleness to his skin when he wasn't getting over-excited or out of breath running for his life. The slight, very slight reddish base tones to his brown hair.

_I wo__nder how old he actually is_, she caught herself thinking. _Thirty? Maybe even… forty?_ She let herself smile, then straightened and put her hand out to his book. She lifted it from his hands and looked at the cover.

"'_Ethel the Aardv__ark Goes Quantity Surveying'_?" she asked herself. She looked at the page number and snapped it shut, shaking her head and reaching over him to put it on the desk. She half-expected him to make her jump by saying something. He didn't.

'_Move, move__, quick you've got to move…'_ The radio-like device played on, and she straightened, letting one hand steal onto her hip.

"I don't believe you," she said, then put her other hand out and pushed at his shoulder firmly.

The effect was instantaneous. His ankles slid off the desk as if he'd been kicked. His hands grabbed for the book that was no longer in his grasp. His head bobbed up and he looked around, startled and most definitely completely awake.

He realised Martha was standing next to him and simply raised his eyebrows.

"What did you break?" he asked knowingly. She frowned.

'_Come on it's __through, come on it's time,'_ the radio continued, and she leaned past him to the desk, reaching for the radio.

"No, hold on, leave it," he said indignantly, "I'm listening to that."

"Doctor, you were asleep," she pointed out, but she did leave the radio to itself.

"I listen better when I'm at rest," he pointed out peevishly. She frowned at him.

'_Oh l__ook at you, you, you're looking so confus__ed, just what did you lose?'_

"Are you always ratty when you've just woken up?" she asked bluntly. He turned and blinked at her.

"What?"

"I said, are you –"

"Sssh," he said irritably, leaning over and turning up the radio, "this is my favourite bit."

She put her hands on her hips and just waited, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"I know this song. It's _'Bar Italia__'_," she said.

"Sssh!" he hissed urgently. She clamped her mouth shut.

'_Now if yo__u can make an __order, can you get me one –'_

"Here it comes," he said delightedly, looking at her and gesturing to the radio with his head, a daffy grin stealing over his face. She smiled despite herself.

'_Two sugars would be great. Cos I'm fading f__ast, and it's nearly dawn –'_

"There, see!" he cried, vindicated. He pushed his chair back from the desk abruptly, pointing at the machine excitedly before slapping his writing desk. She just raised her hands and eyebrows at him. "Two sugars? Fading fast?" he prompted. She just shook her head. "Jarvis put that in after we had a conversation about the restorative powers of a good cup of tea, especially when you find you're – well, that you're suddenly not yourself," he said, turning thoughtful.

"You?" she asked, reaching over and turning down the radio abruptly. "You had a conversation with Jarvis Cocker? Of Pulp?"

"Is there another one?" he asked innocently. "Nice man. Very clever. Likes his tea. Suspiciously understanding of that moment when you go in a store and find that all the trousers are just about an inch too short. You know what it's like, you go in looking for some 34 inside leg and all they've got is –"

"Doctor?" she asked quietly. He stopped and looked at her.

"Hmm?" he asked, realising the discomfort on her face. "What?" he asked, his smile fading.

"Look, I didn't mean to just barge in here, and I certainly wasn't _looking_ for your bedroom or anything, but that countdown on the main console thing says we had an ETA of ten minutes… _before_ I got lost trying to find you in this huge place," she added lamely.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, mystified. "The TARDIS would have woken me when she needed me," he added confidently. She reserved judgement. He got up quickly and then looked at his feet, wiggling his toes in the socks. He paused. "Oh. Where did I leave my…" He walked off and out of the door. She followed quickly, finding he was already reaching a bend in the zigzagging corridor. She hurried so as not to be left behind in the maze. "Ah-_ha_!" she heard him shout in victory, and rounded the corner to find him bent over directly in front of her, picking up his carelessly discarded trainers. She managed to stop herself before she bumped into him.

He turned and looked at her.

"Martha Jones, you're a girl," he said firmly, and she just blinked at him.

"I thought you were supposed to be _smart_," she teased. "I've been here a week and it's taken you this long to work that out?"

He actually smiled, she noticed. "As a girl, you have that infinitely acute sense of colour that Time Lords have always lacked," he went on cheerfully. She waited. "So do these red ones go with the brown suit?"

She laughed out loud, then caught his expression: confused.

_Good_, she thought vindictively. "No," she said. "White. Or black," she added as an afterthought.

"I can't wear the black ones!" he cried, aghast.

"Why not?" she asked, surprised at his energetic reaction.

"Martha Jones, _I_ thought _you_ were supposed to be smart!" he countered, as if it were obvious. He walked off in his socks, down to the circular console, a red shoe in each hand. "Those are my _best_ ones – they go with the monkey-suit," he added, still sounding indignant. She just looked at him.

"Doctor," she said firmly, as she walked up to his side by the console, watching him stuff a red shoe under his arm to play with some controls. "You wear brogues with a tux. You wear… Brooks Brothers, Armani, Prada," she admonished. "You _do not_ wear a battered old pair of Converse Chuck Taylor's!"

"But they fit," he said, looking at her in exasperation.

"So do dress shoes," she said patiently.

"No, they _fit_," he stressed. "Black Chucks for a black tux. See?"

"Doctor, you are a nutter, mate," she breathed, shaking her head.

"Me? A nutter?" he scoffed. "_You're_ the one who thinks Jarvis Cocker comes from Sheffield," he added, rolling his eyes in amazement.

"Jarvis Cocker _does_ come from Sheffield," she shot back.

"The city? Or the planet named after it by the colonists?" he asked, pre-occupied, watching some tiny read-out as he adjusted the ball set into the console.

"You're joking," she stated flatly.

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p' loudly. "If I were joking, I'd say… 'why did Jarvis Cocker cross the road?'" he said, apparently to himself.

"I don't know, why did Jarvis Cocker cross the road?" she sighed.

"Cos it wasn't just any road, it was a pan-dimensional transport tunnel with the added benefit of a different hyper-glaxial exit springing from the many –"

"Stop it!" she chuckled, forcing her hand through his arm and taking the red shoe. He grinned and let her turn him slightly by his elbow, taking the other one. "Right. How long have we got till we land?" she asked, banging the shoes together in her hands.

"Er… four minutes," he said, looking up from the console.

"Then you'd better get a shift on if you're going to find your white ones," she said.

He turned and raced up the rampway excitedly, grabbing at the doorjamb to aid his flight through it.

"And your jacket!" she called after him, grinning.

"Just wait!" he called from somewhere in the corridor.

"Just shift!" she countered, looking down and realising she had slipped her hands into the shoes to bang them together sole-first. She shook herself and jerked the shoes off her hands quickly, tutting at herself.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

"Here we are," he said, very pleased, standing back from the console to do the buttons up on his brown jacket. She peered at the display, shaking her head.

"That's just symbols. Where are we?" she asked.

"You mean you can't read?" he teased, then lifted his foot to balance it on the edge of the console, tying his laces securely.

"Sorry. I only studied _Earth_ languages at comprehensive school," she said tartly, making him grin.

"Well I can't help it if your school was short-sighted, can I?" he said ebulliently, letting his foot fall and turning away from the console, dragging his long coat from over the beam next to him, shaking it. "Keys?" he said to himself, then heard a slight noise and smiled, pulling on the coat. "Come on, then," he said cheerfully, already walking down toward the doors.

"Do you do this to everyone?" she demanded suddenly, and he stopped, looking back at her.

"Do what?" he asked, non-plussed.

"Do you treat everyone as if they don't matter?" she asked hotly. He sniffed, his cheerful smile fading quickly. He let his hands slide into his pockets, looking round the TARDIS slowly.

"We _are_ everyone," he pointed out.

"What?" she asked flatly, folding her arms.

"Well there's only us two here. So, technically, we _are_ everyone," he said patiently. She pouted. "What do you really mean to ask me?" he asked slowly.

"I just want… I just want to know where we are," she said, exasperated. "You just plough on like me telling you I couldn't read the monitor was my little joke! It's not fair! It's like I'm not really here, you just need something else in this big old crate to break the silence. Why don't you stick to that radio, you can't hurt_its_ feelings!"

"Now you've hurt _my_ feelings, Martha Jones," he said curiously, and she bit her lip. "There's only one person allowed to call this ship a 'crate', and he's not here," he added tersely. She watched him. He stared at her, but it seemed to be with curiosity. "Would you say I'm a callous person?" he asked suddenly.

She actually found herself thinking about it. "No," she admitted quietly.

"Little bit mean?"

"Well… not really," she said.

"Malicious?"

"No," she said firmly.

"So what exactly do you find unfair?" he asked, confused. "It's not like I get you to make the tea, is it? Mind you, it's better _I_ make it. You never warm the –"

"Doctor, I meant that you -. That I just feel like -. That I just want you to talk to me like I'm really _here_," she stressed. "You say all the tiny things, like 'good morning' and 'tea, Martha?' and 'look at that, isn't is interesting' and all the really, really, inconsequential things. But you never talk about anything else! It's as if you're _trying_ not to do anything but small talk!" she accused.

He looked at his feet for a long second, and she realised she had shouted. He looked up finally, but he didn't look at her. He looked around the TARDIS slowly.

"Have you ever heard me do anything else with any_one_ else?" he asked wearily.

"Actually… no," she admitted, surprised.

"So it's possible I do this with everyone, all the time, then?" he asked. She thought about it for a long minute. She nodded slowly. "Ah. So what you're upset about is the fact that I'm not a sharey-talky-best-friendy person. Is that it?" he asked, confused.

"I just… Yeah, I suppose so," she said quietly, then huffed. He continued to watch her, and she looked back at him. "I'm sorry. If you're not built that way, you're not built that way. There I go again, trying to fit your square alien personality into a round human hole," she sighed, wiping her forehead.

"I can fit round holes when I want to," he sniffed, and she looked up at him. "I like that though – square alien personality, round human hole. Nice," he said, grinning affably to himself as he looked at the ceiling.

"So… where are we?" she asked, walking down the ramp to stand next to him, nearer the doors.

"Take a look," he dared, gesturing to the doors with his head. She tutted and reached out, slapping her fist into his chest, hard. The breath wheezed out of him and he 'whoof'ed in surprised. "What?" he demanded, putting his hand up and rubbing his chest sulkily.

"You don't have to try and impress with me with all these 'come and see outside' routines," she challenged.

"Oh," he said, a little crest-fallen, his bottom lip starting to stick out slightly. "I thought you liked it. You know, man of mystery, bit of undiscovered country, like –"

"You're not a man of mystery," she snorted dismissively, and he stopped short.

"Oh."

"You're a black hole of the completely unknown," she said, walking past him and shaking her head. He grinned suddenly, then put his hand back in his pocket and walked after her, stopping by the doors.

"You know, you come out with the greatest little phrases," he mused, as if to himself. She looked up at him to find him grinning at her. She bit her lip, trying not to show the heat in her face.

"Yeah, well," she said weakly. He leaned closer to her and put his hand on top of hers, over the door handle.

"Right then," he said quietly, fixing her with a gaze from just six inches away. "This is where I break the habit of a lifetime – well, sort of… well, at least do something I never thought I would," he admitted.

"Right," she said hastily with false cheer. She wondered if her knees were shaking. He leaned his head down closer and she realised her hand was gripping the door handle painfully tightly. _I just hope this bloody th__ing doesn't come off in my hand!_

"And tell you – that this is Pwr," he said quietly. "See? You wanted to know where we are, and I just told you. Plainly, simply, no guessing or teasing. Although _I_ think you rather like the teasing," he winked, straightening up and moving to open the door. She swallowed and nodded, clearing her throat quietly.

"That's what you like to think," she managed gamely, pushing the door. He watched her walk outside and then leaned back and picked something up, following her.


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

They stood outside the TARDIS doors in the driving rain, looking around.

"Hang on a tick," he said confidently, opening the large golfing umbrella quickly. She just hugged her arms to herself, tutting.

"Does it always rain like this, or are we just lucky?" she asked.

"No no, it always rains like this," he said. "Sometimes it rains for several days without stopping," he added, looking down at her as she cowered under the umbrella.

"Sounds like England," she grumped.

"Not when the days are thirty-three hours long," he said cheerfully. She looked up at him. "Come on then, this way," he said happily, striding off. She hurried after him to keep under the umbrella.

"So what are we doing here?" she asked. They walked along a long alleyway, coming out into a busy market street. She stopped and stared, not caring as he wandered on without her, taking the umbrella.

The street was possibly wide enough for three lanes of traffic, had it had any. Right now it was over-run with stalls and traders, colourfully printed banners and bright, happy trimmings and effects jammed into every inch. It was a perfect way to make the rain seem happy and not grey after all. She grinned, then realised she was getting rained on. She ran to catch up with the Doctor, who had paused to look at something small and metallic on a stall.

"Why here?" she asked, ducking under the canvas awning of the stall. He had collapsed the umbrella and it was dripping with all its might on the grass under their feet. He handed her the umbrella and bent down to peer at something.

"You wanted to come here," he said, pre-occupied, picking something up. "Excuse me, is this a Mark II or a Mark III?" he asked the vendor.

Martha gasped as the large, round red blob she had taken for a pillar of the stall turned around. It had a tiny face with four beady eyes, and it looked back in the direction of the Doctor. Some kind of noise came out of it, and Martha just blinked.

"Don't be daft, the Mark IIIs had filters on the end," the Doctor scoffed, and put the tool down again. The noise went on again, and he paused. "Oh I _see_," he said, pleased, and turned back to it, studying it. "So when did they add that, then?" Again, the odd buzzing noise came from the alien stallholder and Martha just closed her mouth, trying not to be rude. "I thought the factory burnt down. When the Gellerites demanded Off-Worlders had to leave," he sniffed, straightening and looking back at the stallholder. Again, that low-key buzz, and the Doctor laughed suddenly, surprising Martha admirably. "_Nooo_! Did they?" he gushed, staring at the alien. "Oh," he drawled, shaking his head. "I wish I'd seen that! – When was that, by the way?" he asked carefully, pulling at his ear gently. The alien buzzed and he nodded. "Right," he said quietly, "I see. Well, not so long ago then, eh?"

"Doctor?" she asked, noticing people were starting to stop and stare. She looked back at them, failing to find one human face.

"Hmm?" he asked, looking down at her. "Weird eh? Gellerites are always such docile little things," he shrugged. "Well, come on then," he said, grinning and waving at the stallholder, before putting his hand to the umbrella. It overlapped hers, but under the circumstances, she felt better for it. Even though it was oddly cooler than her own. He took it from her and opened it as they ducked back out from under the canvas and into the lane of walking aliens.

"Doctor, why are they staring?" she asked gingerly, trying to keep her voice down.

"They don't see a lot of humans – _well_, people they _think_ are humans," he said cheerfully, looking directly at a staring passer-by and nodding. "Hello!" he called with gusto, and the alien face backed away quickly. "See? Don't worry, they're harmless," he said happily. "Pwrians are just vendors. That's all they care about, selling things," he said. "You heard the man back there – he just wanted to make sure I bought that knackered old breaker-adjuster, even if he had to tell a story to do it. Which, let's face it, is not exactly a hard-"

"I didn't hear what he was saying," she interrupted. The Doctor looked down at her as they walked through the rain.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"I said, I couldn't tell what he was saying," she said. "I don't speak Pwrian, or whatever it was he was talking."

"Neither do I," the Doctor scoffed. "Blimey! If you think I'd go round learning every single language in the universe just so I could go shopping, you're madder than I think you are, Martha Jones," he scoffed. She raised her eyebrows.

"Ok," she said loudly, pulling on his arm to make him stop. Beings of all shapes and sizes pushed round them, going about their business, as he grinned down at her. "One: I am _not_ mad, and two: how do you understand them then?"

"Martha, Martha, Martha," he breathed, shaking his head. "One: you _are_ mad, or you never would have got into the TARDIS in the first place, and two: the TARDIS translates everything for us. So you must have heard what he was saying."

"No, I didn't. Trust me. He sounded like… that buzzing power noise you get when someone turns on a guitar amp," she said. He frowned.

"Not a word? Not a single, solitary little –"

"No!" she interrupted. He looked at her for a long moment, and she realised he was thinking.

"Oh dear," he breathed, frowning. She saw the way his eyebrows arched in abject disappointment and felt her heart drop through her stomach.

"What?" she asked. "I can tell I've done something wrong. What is it?" she asked bravely.

"It must have been that crack about the 'old crate'," he said, nodding slightly. "She's gone off you. You've upset her. She's stopped helping you out, language-wise," he sniffed, raising his chin and watching her. "I suggest," he said slowly, leaning down and pinning her with a decidedly headmaster-ish stare, "that you make it up to her. Apologise. Otherwise you might find your key doesn't work when we get back. Or your bedroom door opens the opposite way. Or the entire room has been moved further on down the corridor," he said seriously.

"What?" she spluttered. "It's just a ship! I know we're supposed to call ships 'she', but you're talking like it's something alive! Like it's got this –"

"Martha Jones, how upset were you when you wanted your mother to like me, and instead she belted me round the face?" he demanded suddenly. She swallowed, caught out.

"You knew I wanted her to like you?"

"How did you feel?" he demanded angrily. She stepped back one, people pushing into her slightly to get round her in the rain-filled street.

"I was – I was hurt and disappointed and… and I just wanted her to like you," she said quietly. "I wanted her to think you were nice, and fun, and…" She let her voice trail off, unable to bring herself to say anything more.

"Well I wanted you to like the TARDIS," he shot back, still not coming off the boil. "I wanted you two to get along. You made me bring you along this time, you made me think that it's time I wanted someone else being friends with her again; everything I've done I've done for _you_, and you just accuse me of ignoring you!" he snapped angrily.

She let her mouth hang open, trying to get her head round it. He looked at her, breathing slightly hard, then straightened and looked over her head resolutely. She swallowed.

"Doctor, I'm sorry," she said boldly.

"Yeah," he muttered, still not looking at her.

"No really," she said indignantly. "Look at me when I'm apologising!" she tutted, slapping his chest soundly. He winced and looked down at her. "I'm sorry! I had no idea you wanted me to be friends with… your ship," she said gingerly. "I didn't know I'd upset… _her_," she managed. "And… I didn't know you did _anything_ for me. Not really," she added, more quietly.

"I brought you here because you wanted to come here," he said clearly.

"When did I say 'take me to Pwr'?" she asked, a small smile stealing over her face. He sighed, then looked around.

"You mentioned you wanted to go shopping. Somewhere that wasn't some boring London high street. Well," he said grandly, looking round. "I think you'll agree, this is _not_ some boring London high street."

She smiled and he realised she hadn't commented. He looked down to find her grinning at him.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"You actually _do_ hear what I say, don't you?" she mused. He shrugged and she smiled. "Ok then, take me shopping," she said. He huffed suddenly.

"Friends?" he offered, unsure. She reached out and took the umbrella from him, putting her other hand through his arm and turning him round.

"Friends," she confirmed. "I'll get her a Magic Tree. She'll like that," she smiled.

"Not the cinnamon one," he said abruptly. "She doesn't like spice."

"Right," she giggled, pulling him on through the rain.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

"Oh look!" he gushed, a large, daft grin on his face. She followed him as he veered off toward a stall. "They've got Fallaxian line-amalgamators," he added, handing her the umbrella and bending down to look.

She looked up at the stallholder, another wide, red being, and smiled gamely.

"Is that good?" she asked, wondering.

"It's marvellous!" he said, greatly amused, picking up a square metal box that fit his palm perfectly. He pulled his other hand out of his pocket and turned the instrument over a few times, then paused and pulled his glasses out of his inside pocket. She watched, shaking her head, as he slipped them on and studied the box with great care.

The red alien made the same guitar-amp buzzing sound and she bit her lip, unhappy.

"No, no, she's with me," the Doctor said, pre-occupied. "Was this made on Fallaxia?" he added suspiciously.

She let her attention wander as the two aliens apparently argued over places of manufacture and price, her gaze taking in the market street idly.

_I could be in Lond__on, looking at the same old boring streets, the same old boring rain, the s__ame old boring bus-ride home_ she realised. Her gaze settled and she let her eyes focus properly. She grinned.

"Doctor," she said, putting a hand up and nudging his arm.

"But it doesn't even have a stamp," he said grumpily to the alien stallholder.

"Doctor, look," she said, then turned to him. "Put that down and _look_," she stressed, her hand closing round his wrist and shaking slightly. He put the box down quickly and looked up, alarmed. "Shoes!" she chuckled.

"What?" he asked, unprepared. She just looked back at him, then pulled on his wrist. She looked at the stallholder.

"Sorry mate, this is a priority," she winked, not caring if he understood her or not, and pulled on the Doctor's wrist. She led him out into the rain, lifting the umbrella hastily as she pulled him on to another stall across the street and down a good twenty feet.

She led him through the rain, her hand tight on his wrist, until she stopped him in front of a new stall. There, under a large canvas awning that held all the rain out admirably, were rows upon rows of his favourite trainers.

"Ooh!" he breathed, impressed, and she let go of his arm as he walked under the awning and pushed the glasses up his nose, bending down to look.

"Doctor, look! They sell beige ones!" she chuckled, pointing.

"Beige? I can't wear beige, my feet will look like a couple of painting canvasses!"

"Well they're certainly big enough. Someone might mistake them for a couple of P & O ferries," she giggled.

"Oi!" he protested.

"Look, pale green ones," she said quickly.

"Green?" he prompted, indignant. "_Green_?"

"Or look, sky blue," she added.

"Sky blue? With these brown trousers?" he asked, his voice apparently stuck in the high tones.

"You're right," she said, then put her hand to his elbow, pulling him to follow her. "We need a bigger selection. What about in there?" she said, pointing to a large building. He looked up.

"Ah, the proper shopping centre," he said, pleased.

"Well?" she asked, looking up at him. "Or are you scared we might actually find some shoes you like in your size?"

"Do you think they do chocolate?" he asked, his hand going to her back and guiding her onward. She chuckled and they made a mad dash through the rain to the large automatic doors.

Once inside she waited for him to collapse the umbrella. He looked around, taking off his glasses and stowing them somewhere in an inside jacket pocket.

"There," he said cheerfully, walking off. She followed him on to a small shop, quiet and unassuming in appearance. They walked in and a soft '_bong_' sounded. She looked up to see another red, dollop-shaped alien watching them.

"Hi," she said cheerfully. "Just browsing, thanks."

They walked around the small space, looking over the rows and rows of shoes. She left him to stare and play with the selection, edging ever closer the shopkeeper, getting a good look at him. She walked back over to the Doctor.

"Now I _know_ what's not right with this place," she said quietly, tugging on his elbow.

"Hmm?" he rumbled, picking up a large trainer and then opening his long overcoat, comparing it the brown suit inside. He shook his head and put it down quickly.

"These _people_," she managed, wondering over a better word, "they have no feet."

"Well of course they don't, they're Pwrians," he said, pre-occupied.

"So why do they sell Converse trainers?" she whispered hoarsely. He froze, then turned and looked at her.

"What?" he asked, patently confused.

"Well, if they have no feet, who's going to buy trainers?" she whispered. "You know… Do they get millions of tourists a year, the bipedal kind? Or… do they sell them as knick-knacks that people love to buy but never use – like those bottles of dodgy-looking alcohol you get from Greece on a booze-cruise?" she asked.

He fixed her with a speculative gaze, then smiled slowly.

"You just keep thinking, don't you?" he mused, apparently to himself. He sniffed suddenly and looked back at the shoes. "These?" he asked, lifting a left shoe and waggling it at her.

It was deep brown, with electric blue stripes through it. She looked at it, then back at him.

"If you want," she sighed, glimpsing how bored her last boyfriend must have been to wait around their local _Monsoon_ shop while she chose dress shoes for her latest outfit.

"Oh," he said, disappointed, and put it down again. "Oh, _now_!" he said suddenly, and she looked back at him as he picked up a rather over-sized-looking left trainer, in fluorescent yellow. She smiled, she couldn't help it.

"Well they'd certainly match your personality," she said to herself. He looked at her.

"Do you think?" he asked, grinning. She nodded but suddenly his smile vanished. "Hold on," he said, looking panicked, and handed her the shoe. She took it and watched him lift his left foot, grabbing the width and raising the sole closer to his face, bending down to peer at it.

"You _are_ joking," she stated flatly. "You don't know what size your feet are?"

"Not these," he said honestly, tutting and letting go of his foot. He turned it and then pulled up his trouser-leg slightly, pulling out the tongue under the laces and scrutinising it. At last he let go and let his foot drop back to the floor. He looked over at the shopkeeper, who appeared to be watching them with guarded interest. "Afternoon!" he gushed cheerfully. "Have you got these in a forty-five?"

There came the same buzzing sound and Martha waited.

"Oh, er… Martha Jones," the Doctor said suddenly, "what's that _other_ size for forty-five?" he asked. She stared at him blankly. "You know… Nine? Ten?"

"Oh right!" she said quickly. "Er… Well Leo's a… and that's about… so forty-five is… eleven?" she guessed. "Are you seriously a forty-five?" she wondered out loud.

"Well that's what these say, and they're comfortable enough," he said, looking over her head and waving the fluorescent yellow trainer at the shopkeeper, asking him for the requisite size.

"Well you know what _they_ say – about men with big feet," she said, imagining very well.

"They wear big shoes?" he hazarded, clueless. She grinned but said nothing.

After ten minutes of checking sizes and trying them on, the Doctor and Martha walked out of the shop and into the shopping centre.

"A productive day," she said, nodding. He grinned, tying the laces of the pair of size forty-five-and-a-half fluorescent Converse Chuck Taylor's together and hanging said laces over the index finger of his right hand, swinging them slightly.

"What's that word? 'Cool'?" he grinned daffily, and she nodded.

"Now all we need is a Magic Tree air freshener, and we're off," she said. He laughed unexpectedly, nudging her shoulder, and they turned and walked on through the mall.

He stopped as he heard a regular slapping sound, and turned slightly in the direction of the sound.

Something whipped by them at top speed, snagging the trainers and haring off in a similar fashion.

"Oi!" he shouted angrily, staring after what looked like a young lad. He was speeding off, the new pair of trainers clutched in his grasp. The Doctor didn't even spare Martha a glance; he took off after the young tyke.

Martha blinked, looked around, then took off after them.

"Come back! All I want is the trainers!" the Doctor shouted, barrelling after the figure he appeared to be gaining on.

_He might be skinny but he's some Olympic sprinter!_ Martha puffed, doing her best to keep up. _Now I know why he wears trainers…_

She followed them across the wide floor of the shopping centre, following the long flowing brown coat and the sound of someone calling in vain. She watched the brown coat vanish round a corner and did her best to find her hidden reserves. She pounded round the corner and into a long corridor of white tiles, finding the going a little slippery underfoot.

She careened down the tiles and turned the corner to find the Time Lord looking around desperately, not happy at all.

"Cheeky blighter!" he cursed at the top of his puffed-out lungs, putting his hands on his hips and finding Martha sliding to a stop next to him in the corridor.

"Well?" she breathed, "Where is he, Doctor?"

"I lost him, didn't I!" he cried, as if it were obvious.

"You lost him?" she dared.

"Rubber soles might be great for not getting electrocuted, but they're sadly lacking in turning corners on a wet tiled floor!" he pointed out indignantly. "And where were you, anyway? You were supposed to be helping me, Martha Jones!"

"Woah, woah, woah," she said suddenly, putting her hands up. "How many people do you know called 'Martha'?" she asked.

"I don't know… two?" he hazarded, still looking around urgently.

"So you don't need to call me 'Martha Jones'," she pointed out. "Trust me, I'll know who you mean if you just call me 'Martha'."

"But that's your name, Martha Jones," he said, confused.

"What if my name was Martha Annie Gladys – er – Guinevere, ah, Ivy – er – Ermintrude Jones?" she challenged.

"Then I'd call you MAGGIE," he pointed out, distracted, and she shook her head. "Look, he must be around here some-"

"There!" she called, looking up and spotting a shape moving behind a ventilation grid.

"The little –" he began, then simply yanked open his coat hurriedly and grabbed his screwdriver. He pointed it toward the next ventilation grid in the ceiling.

"Doctor!" she said quickly. "You're not going to –"

"Oh yes!" he cried vindictively. "I liked those shoes!"

She heard the now-familiar sound of the screwdriver at work. The bolts on each corner of the grid gave slightly. Suddenly there was a creaking sound and the grid gave way, followed by a lump in a pair of jeans and hoodie.

The entire ensemble crashed to the floor. She leapt over and grabbed the shoulder of the small being, turning him over and looking at him. She caught her breath.

She had assumed it was a young human boy. She had been wrong.

The being, another deep red, gelatinous mass, blinked his four round eyes at her and the large opening she took to be a mouth opened.

The familiar sound of a guitar amp floated toward her and she looked up at the Doctor, confused.

"But why?" he demanded, walking round and pocketing the screwdriver. He crouched down and peered at the alien.

The alien sat up slowly, the same low-frequency note emanating from him as he dusted himself off slowly.

"You could have just asked," the Doctor said dismissively, putting his hands out. The alien took them and he helped him to his feet steadily.

"He's got two feet," Martha pointed out. The alien and Time Lord both looked at her, surprised, and the alien said something. The Doctor put his hands in his pockets, looking Martha up and down suddenly with a rather too clinical gaze.

"Yes, I suppose she has," he said, as if something had only just become apparent. Martha looked at the alien and suddenly had a bad feeling. She put her hand to the zip on her red leather jacket and zipped it up quickly. "So what's the story, eh?" the Doctor said suddenly, looking back at the alien. He bleated out a long sequence of noises before the Doctor stopped him by waving his hands. "Stop, stop, stop," he said loudly, drowning him out. "Just hand over the shoes, jam-boy."

"Doctor!" she breathed, shocked. The alien put a hand out, and the Doctor took his new pair of trainers back slowly. He reached inside the right one, feeling around, looking at the ceiling. He stopped and looked back at the much shorter alien.

"Oh look," he said accusingly, pulling his hand out with a small key in his thin, elegant fingers. "So where does this go and why was it in my shoe?"


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

Martha unzipped her jacket and walked up the ramp slowly.

"So he's basically a sixth-form student, and that key opens his locker?" she asked slowly, thinking.

"Kind of," the Doctor admitted, closing the doors to the TARDIS behind her. "If you count being thirty-three years old a sixth-form student."

"But you said these people live for like two hundred years," she pointed out. "So that still makes him about sixteen in Earth years."

"I suppose it does," he mused to himself, peeling off his long coat and throwing it carelessly at a support beam near the control console. She folded her arms, looking at him.

"So you've got your shoes and now we're just going to leave?" she asked bluntly.

"Pretty much, yeah," he said, non-plussed. "Why?"

"He said his dad would kill him if he found out about the stash in his locker," she pointed out.

"Yeah," he confirmed shortly with a nod, his hands slipping into his pockets effortlessly.

"And we're just going to leave him here?"

"Yeah," he nodded innocently.

"Doctor, he's going to get into trouble."

"He should have thought of that before he stashed illegal drugs in his locker," he said warningly, ignoring her eye-roll as he walked up to the centre console.

"Oh come on!" she sighed, shaking her head.

"What?" he asked, bending over the console to check settings.

"Did you never smoke a few suspect things when you were at Uni?" she demanded.

"Quite a few, as a matter of fact. But I was always careful not to be caught with it," he said, pre-occupied. Martha stopped short.

"Wait, wait, wait," she said quickly, hurrying up to the console and watching him from the opposite side. "_You_ went to Uni?"

"Well of course I did," he scoffed, not looking at her. "How else could I be a doctor?"

"What's your doctorate in?" she said quickly.

"Thermo -. _Why_?" he said, overlapping himself hastily.

"Just wondered. You know, people call themselves 'doctor' all the time, doesn't mean they actually have a doctorate in something."

"Well I _do_," he said tetchily. She waited, folding her arms. He looked up. "Oh what now?" he heaved irritably.

"We're not leaving here till we know that Arkel – Arkel –"

"Arkel'bontannatin-ayan," he supplied helpfully.

"_He_ is not going to get his arse tanned by his dad for carrying less than half the legal limit of some smokable drug," she said firmly. He looked up at her.

"Why do you care?" he asked suddenly, confused. She looked away.

"Because… because it's kind of our fault he got arrested for stealing your shoes," she said.

"Our fault?" he demanded. "It's his fault he put his locker key in the shoe that I happened to buy. It's his fault the key fits his school locker than contains the stash of wacky-baccy that _he_ bought and hid in there," he continued. "It's his fault he was forced to steal _my_ shoes to get the key back. I fail to see how any of this is our fault!"

"Just… Trust me," she said forcefully. He looked at her for a long moment, indecision written on his face. "Just this once," she added quietly. He looked around the TARDIS, his eyes rolling in consternation. His mouth worked for a moment without sound. Then he looked back at her.

"But I wanted to go to Persephone," he grumped.

"We can go there after you've – _we've_ – helped him avoid a run-in with his dad," she said. "You know what dads are like, they're a bit over-zealous at times."

"Oh yes!" he confirmed suddenly, and with a great deal of conviction. "Especially when you come home and tell them that some dean at the academy has -." He stopped suddenly, looking away. "Alright." He paused, thinking, then looked over at her, pointing accusingly. "But don't think I'm doing this because I feel sorry for the little thief!" he said sternly.

"Of course not," she agreed, smiling.

"I'm only doing this as a favour to _you_," he snapped irritably.

"Fine," she said firmly.

"And _that's_ only cos you found the shop with the best trainers in it," he added hotly.

"Absolutely," she nodded.

"And it _was_ less than a quarter of an ounce."

"That's what I said," she said seriously. He looked over at her for a long moment.

"Martha Jones," he said accusingly, and she looked up. She met his demanding gaze and wondered, not for the first time, just what he was thinking. "Thank you," he said humbly, then turned quickly and reached for his coat, pushing his hand in the pocket and finding the keys. He pocketed them, flung the coat back over the beam, and turned to her. "Well? Come on then," he grumbled.

"Don't forget, I still have to get this lovely magic box a lovely Magic Tree!" she called after him, hurrying down the ramp.

"Well where do you get them?" he asked, opening the door for her.

"I don't know – where's the nearest Shell petrol station?" she chuckled.

He laughed and followed her out of the TARDIS.

THE END


End file.
